Cousin Ollie tossed down his comic book and sighed. “I’m bored.”

I was in the middle of a very important panel of my Little Lulu comic. I fumbled for the empty wrapping paper tube beside me and flung it at Ollie. “Here, look for something to do through your telescope.”

Back in those prehistoric days, my View Master with its wheels of 3-D pictures was the epitome of technology. For everything else, we used cardboard and imagination.

I turned the page in my comic book. Tubby, in one of his ridiculous disguises, was about to accuse Lulu’s dad of stealing her dolly. Just as Lulu grabbed the bag of Tubby’s shirttail, a cardboard tube pressed against my forehead.

“Our probe searches for intelligent life buried deep inside Burtie’s brain,” Ollie intoned. “But all our scope detects is a big, empty cavern of nothing.”

“Cut it out.” I swatted away the wrapping paper roll. “Find something to do.”

“I did. Irritate you.” Ollie chuckled. “It worked, too.”

He bopped me over the head three times with the tube. Thwump, thwump, thwump.

“Knock it off!”

“I can’t, Burtie. Your head’s too hard. This is only cardboard, you know.”

I slammed the comic book closed. “Just because you’re bored doesn’t mean I am.”

Ollie jumped to his feet and snatched his cork gun from the corner. “Let’s run out to the woods and hunt bears.”

“You don’t have any bears in your woods.”

“When all you’ve got is a cork gun, that’s the best time to hunt bears — when they ain’t there.”

I sighed and stood. “If you keep carrying on like that, we might as just head to the garden now.”

“There aren’t any bears in the garden.”

“None in your woods, either. And it’s not as long of a walk.”

Despite my warning, Ollie bounded down the stairs. “Ma! Hey, Ma!”

I chased after him. “Ollie, don’t say it.”

Too late. Ollie ran into Aunt Tillie in the kitchen. Literally.

“Yipe! Watch it!” Aunt Tillie grabbed the back of a chair to save herself. But the sheet of biscuits flipped out of her hands and ended up dough first on the floor.

I didn’t catch all of what Aunt Tillie said next, but I was kinda glad I hadn’t. It would have singed my ears.

“Ma…”

I grabbed his arm and hissed, “Ollie, shut up.”

Too late. He said those fateful words. “Ma, we’re bored.”

Aunt Tillie jerked upright, a clump of dough in each hand. “Bored? BORED?”

“Yeah. There’s nothing to do.”

I groaned.

Wisps of steam curled out of Aunt Tillie’s ears. “Nothing. To. Do?” She snatched up the baking sheet and slapped it against Ollie’s belly. “First, you man, you are going to scrape all those biscuits off the floor. Then…”

I closed my eyes. Here it comes.

“… you and Burton are each going to take a peck basket from the back porch, march yourselves out the garden, and pick green beans.”

“I’m not THAT bored.”

I raised my hand. “Aunt Tillie, I never said that I was bored. I was perfectly satisfied until SOMEBODY whapped me over the head with a cardboard tube.”

“And furthermore…” Aunt Tillie glared at both of us. One of her eyes twitched. “…you two imps will weed the garden. And don’t step on any tomatoes this time.”

As we shuffled toward the garden — the biggest, weediest garden ever — I conked Ollie with my peck basket. “When are you ever going to learn? NEVER tell a grownup that you’re bored. And especially not a grownup with a garden. I never got all the garden dirt out from under my fingernails from the last time you were bored.”

“If the zucchini’s long enough, we could have a sword fight.”

“NO!” I groaned. “As soon as we’re done here, tell your mom that I’ll be in the woods. Whistling for bears.”

“I’ll get my cork gun.”

“Bring the cardboard tube, too. I don’t want to get bored.”

Tell Burt tall tales about your childhood adventures at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.